Things my cat taught me

Pusskuss (1970-1989)

I can't imagine living in a house where mine is the only heartbeat.

In 1970, I adopted a cat from the Richmond SPCA. I've always loved animals. My first job, while I was still in high school, was working as a kennel boy at Ambassador Animal Hospital on Broad Street. That job hardly seemed like work to me.

As a kid, I had dogs, but no cats. My father didn't like cats, and no matter how many stray kittens I dragged home, I wasn't allowed to keep them. My father would always find somebody else who was willing to adopt them. (At least that's what he told me.)

The first dog I remember was Mr. Bo, a Cocker Spaniel that was named for the cartoon character who advertised National Bohemian beer. Mr. Bo once ate a box of my sister's Crayolas and left technicolor deposits all over the back yard.

My second dog was an Airedale mix whose birth I attended. I was working at the animal hospital on a weekend when his mother went into labor. I played doggie midwife until the on-call vet arrived. The mother's owners gave me one of the puppies. We were studying "Le Morte d'Arthur" in high school English class, so I named him Modred, after a character from the King Arthur legend. Modred was Arthur's illegitimate son by his half-sister Morgause, and given my Modred's mixed background it seemed an appropriate choice at the time.

In 1970 I lived in an apartment: no dogs allowed. Thus, if I wanted a four-legged pet, it was a cat or nothing.

I didn't go to the SPCA with the idea of adopting a kitten. I went to interview Margaret Williams, who was then the shelter's director. But while I was there ...

I brought Pusskuss -- whose name came from my nephew's inability to pronounce "pussycat" when he was a toddler -- back to the newsroom with me, but there was no safe place to keep him there. I filled the bottom of a 16mm film canister with water and stashed it and the kitten in my Volkswagen until I could go home. When I left the station, Pusskuss was fast asleep in the driver's seat.

Pusskuss and I bonded instantly. He always slept face-to-face with me, with my arm curled around him as his front paws rhythmically kneaded bread against my chest. He was my first cat, and he lived with me for 19 years. Part Siamese -- as are many black cats -- he had a yowl that commanded attention. He also purred loudly when he was happy -- very loudly -- and often drooled when he was completely content.

He trusted me implicitly. At Christmastime one year when he was a few years old, I awoke one night to find him standing on my chest, squeaking out a meow that was unlike his usual full-volume yowl. I turned on the lights. As he squeaked again, I could see a bit of a metallic icicle from the Christmas tree at the back of his throat. He had eaten it, and it was choking him. I quickly grabbed a hemostat left over from my medic days, and Pusskuss calmly allowed me to stick it way back into his throat and pull out 10 inches of icicle. If you know cats, you know that's trust.

So why am I writing about a cat? The answer is simple, especially if you read the subtitle of my blog: Pusskuss taught me so much.

I learned responsibility. I learned understanding. I learned about unconditional love. I learned that pets are not simply playthings: they are sentient beings that often demand patience and always deserve the best you can give them.

Pusskuss also taught my father about the joy of having a cat. In 1971, I made my first trip back to Europe. I left Pusskuss with my parents, knowing that my mother would be a responsible guardian. I expected that my father, the man who had never let me have a cat when I was little, would simply ignore him.

When I got back two weeks later, my parents picked me up at the Richmond airport at about 9 p.m. My first question was, "How's Pusskuss?" My mom told me he had settled in just fine, although he had prowled the house intently for the first few days, she said, "looking for you."

My father was quiet for a few minutes. Then he said, "Pusskuss is probably asleep now. Why don't you wait until tomorrow to take him home."

"He's a cat!" I told him. "Cats sleep all the time. He won't mind being woken up."

Then it dawned on me. My father wanted one more night with Pusskuss.

"Okay," I said. "I'll pick him up in the morning."

When I went to my parents' house the next day to fetch Pusskuss, my father had gone to work. My mother told me that it had seemed to her as though Pusskuss had been on a mission during his stay. He seemed determined to convert my father into a cat lover. "He spent most of his time in your father's lap. He slept with your father. It was the strangest thing," she said.

Pusskuss's mission was accomplished. He had conquered my father.

Within a month, my parents had adopted a cat of their own.